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I grew up in a non-musical home. We were, however, a church-going family, and there was always music in church. I must not have been more than six-years-old when I told my parents I wanted to be a song leader when I was grown. They probably responded with, "good," spoken with no note of interest, excitement, or encouragement in their voice. That was my earliest ambition, and it faded within the year.
My wife, Carol, grew up in a home that sang all the time. With no musical training they found it easy, almost natural, to harmonize together. My love of music intensified over the years. I loved to sing, and did all the time. However, after marriage, I learned that I could not remember the correct notes to sing, couldn’t get the tune right, nor did I did I have the slightest sense of rhythm at all. Our daughters were born with the same abilities that Carol had. I was not encouraged to sing.
I was in my mid-fifties when Dr. Nancy Jo Humfeld joined the faculty where I taught. Among other things, she taught voice. Her first semester, Carol heard her singing at a performance of "Amahl and the Night Visitors." She was so impressed that, without my knowledge, they conspired to teach me to sing. Now, I have taken six or eight college music courses, and live in a brand-new world. Not only am I a much better singer, I now understand music very well. Almost everything that interests comes under philosophical consideration. My mind turns naturally and easily to philosophical analysis, as well as attempting to set things in a larger context in order to get them in perspective. My singing can now be endured (thought not invited for public performance). On the piano, however, folks would quickly tire of my inept performance. So with the violin, the saxophone, the trombone, th guitar, the recorder, harmonica, or pennywhistle. I have become, according to some definitions, a musician, but of what kind? Neither performer, composer, conductor, nor teacher. I was, and am, convinced that I am a musician, but it took me a while to find my niche in the musical habitat. But when I began investigating the idea of philosophy of music, I learned that I am a musicologian (I’ve never heard the word used; musicologist is the academically accepted term). The field is called "musicology." Musicology has many sub-divisions. It is commonly the term used for historians of music. But in the broadest sense, I am an amateur musicologist. Now, after narrating my entire musical history, I come to the point of this post: Why does musical notation have "rests?" There are quarter-rests, half, whole, an entire measure, and rests of many other kinds. What function do they fulfil? When I first began the study of music, mostly voice, I knew little about it, but early on, I got to wondering about the rests. So in my ignorance I stopped a music professor walking across campus, and asked him about rests. I suggest my own naive answer. Do they mainly serve to give singers and other musicians a moment to catch their breath before proceeding? "Well, there is a little more to it than that," I was informed. Once more, my wonderment sought a new direction might lead to satisfy my insatiable curiosity. I asked most musicians that I knew, and most answers were variations on, "I’ve never really given that much thought." Well, I have. Finally, I thought it through and came up with the answer, or at lest the core of the answer. Rests provide opportunity for assimilation and anticipation, for reflection and readiness for more. I will grant that musical rests seem much too brief to fulfil either of these functions. No, there is not enough time for the rational intellect to assimilate and/or anticipate, but the emotional intellect, the aesthetic intellect can handle. They operate much more rapidly than the pondering movements of logical analysis. Certainly you are free to disagree. If so, I would like to know your suggestions or critiques. However, I was much encouraged when, at a Baylor University "Faith and Art" conference, the keynote speaker was a world-class British composer and musicologist. The next day he gave me several minutes of his time while I asked my "rest" question, and offered my answer. He immediately agreed, and led me into the depths of these two functions. The mainest thing he did was to was to confirm my own musicological thinking. Upon further reflection, I have provisionally concluded that "rest" has the same core meaning outside the world of music. When we are tired, we rest, if possible. Our body now assimilates the labor that we have just been engaged in. At rest, the internal workings of the body work very actively, repairing, strengthening, and calming nerve centers. After adequate rest, we, mind and body alike, begin to anticipate what is to come next.
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